


redamancy

by ilgaksu



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Downton Abbey vibes, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Class Differences, Despite never having watched the show, Keith is an undercover detective, Lance is a 1930s playboy, M/M, feelings happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15804858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: “You are aware,” Keith says, dryly, “That it’s October.”“What can I say?” Lance drawls, tipping the driving goggles further back up onto his head, the ones he insists on wearing even though he’s not driving - just how he insisted a sudden, burning urge to sit in the seat next to Keith, rather than in the backseat as per custom. “I’m becomingquitethe autumnal fanatic.”





	redamancy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleulily (winterfells)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfells/gifts).



> Another scene from an established AU I never....got around to posting. What you need to know: it's the 1930s, Lance is obscenely rich and a professional dilettante with an invitation to Lotor's birthday party weekend extravaganza. Keith is an undercover detective trying to infiltrate the event, gain access to Galran Company property, and expose them. What better way than to get himself hired as Lance's chauffeur, accidentally fall into bed with him, accidentally fall in love with him, and have a crisis of conscience? Right?

 

 **redamancy**  ( _plural_   **redamancies** )

  1. _noun_ ( rare) The act of loving in return.



From the New Latin  _redamantia_ , from the Classical Latin  _redamō_  (“I requite love”, transitive verb).

 

_Kent, England. 1931._

 

There’s so much Lance doesn’t know about him, Keith thinks, taking a sharp turn round the hairpin bend, listening to Lance yelp and laughing. The list goes on as the day is long. It’s not a nice thought.

 

Lance is doing his best trying to catch up, of course. He’s gotten a lot out of Keith, kissed half of Keith’s own story out of his mouth, so much that when Keith sneaks back to the servant quarters, down the staircase in the birdsong dawn he has to try and remember who he is and why Lance knowing who he is would be an absolute chronic disaster. Because there’s no way Keith can turn to him in the dark and secret well of all their unspoken nights and say, _So, funny story, darling! I’m not actually a chauffeur. I didn’t even know how to drive before you hired me, and my resume was a lie. I’m a detective investigating the Galra Company Limited, and you - with your money, and your name, and your invitation to the next heir’s big event - you’re my ticket in._

 

But Lance knows too much, listening solemn-eyed as a boy at church and then remembering, a habit that’s almost uncanny from a man who makes a show of caring very little about anything. Case in point: Keith driving Lance out into the countryside, a heaving wicker picnic basket in the back seat, Lance acting as though this is some kind of eccentric Tuesday whim and not a thinly veiled excuse. Keith can’t remember the last person outside of Shiro to remember Keith’s birthday.

 

“You are aware,” Keith says, dryly, “That it’s October.”

 

“What can I say?” Lance drawls, tipping the driving goggles further back up onto his head, the ones he insists on wearing even though he’s not driving - just how he insisted a sudden, burning urge to sit in the seat next to Keith, rather than in the backseat as per custom. “I’m becoming _quite_ the autumnal fanatic.”

 

The problem with Lance is he’s always so damn expressive. No one ever taught him to bottle up his feelings - no wonder the rest of London society loathe him. Keith, caught on the look in Lance’s eyes, has to remind himself his priority is not driving them both off the road.

 

“Of course you are, sir,” Keith replies, faux-agreeably, and pretends not to notice Lance reacting to that, just how he’ll pretend he didn’t drop that in there just to watch Lance react to it. “And where are we headed again?”

 

Lance turns and reaches over into the backseat to grab the map, and Keith reaches out a gloved hand, grabbing Lance to steady him, holding the steering wheel with the other.

 

“A few more miles,” Lance says finally. He sounds dubious.

 

“You have no idea, do you?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

 _Rich kids._ Keith rolls his eyes.

 

“Do they not teach anything useful at those fancy boarding schools?”

 

“I’m finding it difficult to concentrate,” Lance says unrepentantly, and Keith just knows he’s staring right at Keith as he says it. Keith keeps his eyes on the road. “But not really. I think it might be better if I was useful.”

 

“Possibly,” Keith allows.

 

“You see, there’s someone I keep trying to impress lately,” Lance sighs, sounding put upon. “But since he’s lived a whole life being useful, I’m not remotely prepared in how to.”

 

This man is _ridiculous._ Ridiculous and a mistake. Keith should turn this damn car right back around. He should break like a wishbone and let all his secrets fall out. He should just _tell_ Lance already.

 

He can’t.

 

“You’re decorative,” Keith offers instead, after a moment, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“You’re _mean_ ,” Lance says, sounding delighted. “See! He’s immune to everything I try. It’s honestly very tragic.”

“Not as immune as he wants to be,” Keith says truthfully, dares a glance. Lance is doing that thing - that brilliant, awful thing where he lights up from the inside, eyes like sunlight through stained glass.

 

There’s so much they don’t know about each other. But from Lance’s smile, Keith feels like he knows too much.


End file.
